‘Lord, the enginarium has gone into lockdown,’ the huscarl said. ‘Any weapons fire on the drive deck could trigger it. It will need to be overridden.’
‘You can do so?’
‘With time, lord. But there may also have been damage done to the control mechanisms.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That without basic repairs our projected course will take twice as long to achieve.’
‘Where can such repairs be effected?’
‘Our enginseers would likely be sufficient, lord. But it may be quicker to seek assistance from the nearest docking station.’
‘And where would that be?’
‘We will need a moment to triangulate our exact location.’
Stern waited in silence as the huscarl bent over a rune bank, wizened fingers tapping away. After a few moments the claxons shut off, though the lights continued to wink urgently. Slowly, more wide-eyed kaerls began to emerge from their hiding places.
‘Return to your stations,’ Stern ordered. ‘Now.’
‘I have our coordinates, lord,’ the huscarl said, sliding a freshly inked data chit from a cogitator’s imprint port. ‘It would appear…’ he paused to scan the slip of paper, then looked at Stern’s boots, uncertainty radiating off him.
‘Speak,’ Stern commanded.
‘The closest station is a Ramilies-class star fort, Gormenjarl. It is part of the system’s defence network.’
‘Contact it immediately. Inform them of our requirements.’
‘That’s the problem, lord,’ the huscarl said, still not meeting the Grey Knight’s steely gaze. ‘All contact with both Gormenjarl and the system’s other Ramilies, Mjalnar, was lost at the start of the daemonic incursions. Our signals go unanswered.’
Stern gazed out into the star-studded expanse stretching away beyond the Star Drake’s open vision port. The problem was clear. They were partially stranded hours from their destination, and time was running out. But everything about Gormenjarl boded ill.
‘How big is the Ramilies’ defence contingent?’ Stern asked. The huscarl paused, scanning his cogitator screens.
‘Six platoons of Imperial Navy armsmen and a single pack of Grey Hunters. The ones on rotation when contact was lost were the Redpelts of Lord Kjarl Grimblood’s Great Company.’
It was surely a trap. The onset of the Wulfen curse at such an inopportune moment could not be coincidence. What if the Space Wolves’ genetic instability really was warp-tainted?
But that did not change things, Stern told himself. Not yet. The Dark Angels had to be stopped before they started a full-scale war with the Wolves. The carnage such a conflict would unleash could only serve the Ruinous Powers. Once the situation had been stabilised, then the Wolves and their bestial defect could be subjected to judgement.
Stern had to get to the Rock as soon as possible. And that meant braving a daemon’s schemes.
‘Chart a new heading,’ he said to the huscarl. ‘Get the engines back online and divert as much power to them as you think they can handle. Take us to Gormenjarl.’
The Void, Fenris System
At times like these, standing aboard the bridge of the battle-barge Holmgang, Ragnar Blackmane felt truly helpless.
For a Fenrisian warrior, born and bred beneath clear, cold skies on the banks of icy seas, the confinement of void travel was akin to the worst sort of imprisonment. In his younger years the Wolf Lord had spoken with officers of the Imperial Navy who had relished the endlessness of the galaxy beyond their ships’ bulkheads and vision ports. They talked of limitless space, of the ultimate expanse, a wanderer’s quest that could last forever.
Ragnar saw none of that in the starry darkness he now gazed upon. Only nothingness. The way his pack brethren referred to it – the Sea of Stars – was a misnomer, a lie told to comfort their instinctive dislike of the void. It was nothing like the beautiful, windswept seas of the Hearthworld. It was worse than desolation, worse than abandonment.
Truly, it was a void, nothing more and nothing less. It trapped him in a box of adamantium, his sword-skill and battle-lust rendered impotent. The killing was done by others, by gunnery thralls and range finders, target locks and servitor breach-loaders, none of it glorious, all of it torpid and impersonal. The Young King’s only hope during void engagements was for the savagery of a boarding action. Those, he allowed, were rare, sweet fights. Then a warrior’s speed, his strength and his fury meant everything. But even those few seconds of blood and steel couldn’t eclipse the shuddering monotony of voidborne travel.
Ragnar hadn’t moved from the centre of the Holmgang’s bridge since his fleet had translated in-system. After hailing Krom he’d tried to raise Sven on Svellgard and Harald on Frostheim. His efforts to make long-range vox contact had failed, though he’d reached Harald’s flagship, in orbit above Frostheim. The ship’s chief vox huscarl had reported vessels belonging to the Iron Hands, Ultramarines and Shadow Haunters moving into orbit, making no threatening moves towards the Space Wolves fleet but refusing all offers to communicate.
Right before the end of the last transmission the huscarl had reported an Ultramarines strike cruiser and a trio of Astra Militarum mass transporters breaking away from the fleet in the direction of Svellgard, orbiting on the far side of Frostheim. At the same time Iron Hands Thunderhawks had been picked up heading for low orbit on a trajectory that would take them to Morkai’s Keep. Whether they went to assist Harald Deathwolf’s warriors or purge them, Ragnar didn’t know. The thought that loyal cousins may at that very moment be tearing at one another’s throats because of some wyrd-spawned trickery made his entire body shake with anger.
As far as Midgardia was concerned, information was even patchier. The crusade fleet there, led by the Rock, dwarfed the one taking post around Frostheim and Svellgard. The Space Wolves ships in orbit appeared leaderless – on the rare moments when the Holmgang was able to establish reliable contact, the reports from the huscarls were conflicting and confused. Logan Grimnar was lost. Seemingly now Egil Iron Wolf was too. There were rumours the crusade fleet was about to unleash Exterminatus on Midgardia.
Loudly and without shame, Ragnar damned the waiting to the Seven Hells.
At last, a change in the soul-searing monotony. Augur beacons chimed, and kaerls scurried to and fro beneath the bridge’s dais as data was collated.
‘What is it?’ Ragnar demanded, staring out into the void, the nothingness, as though his keen eyes would have been able to pick something out of the endless emptiness.
‘A ship just entered our furthest engagement proximity zone, lord,’ said a huscarl, bowing to the Young King.
‘What ship?’
‘Our cogitators are working to identify it right now, but it appears to be Imperial.’
At the moment that counted for very little. Ragnar bared his fangs in annoyance as he waited for the chattering cogitators to finish their arcane computations.
‘I have it,’ said a second huscarl, peering at the fuzzy green display of a data-slate. ‘The ship is a fast cutter, New Star pattern, but appears to have been extensively modified. It’s transmitting an ident-signal…’ He paused for a moment. ‘But it’s blank, my lord.’
Ragnar’s expression darkened. He watched the red blip representing the anonymous vessel drawing fractionally closer to the Space Wolves fleet on one of the bridge’s holocharts, like a seaborne minnow darting cautiously towards a great Fenrisian kraken. There were few ships in the galaxy that bore blank ident-signals, and fewer still that would dare approach an entire Space Wolves fleet on a war footing.
‘There are no other ships within striking distance?’ the Young King demanded, eyes darting across the charts and the oculus feeds.
‘No, lord.’
‘Extend the augur range and scan again. I want to be certain.’ Even at the best of times, the appearance of such a vessel didn’t bode well. And these were far from the best of times.
‘Lord, it’s hailing us. Vox only.’ For
a moment, Ragnar hesitated. Then he gestured at the communications array.
‘On speakers. Let’s hear him.’
The voice that addressed the crew of the Holmgang was one Ragnar felt he’d known all his life – firm, uncompromising, self-assured. It was the voice of the Imperium, cracked with age but still smouldering with resolution. It was exactly what the jarl had feared, as soon as he’d seen the blank markers of the mysterious ship’s designation.
‘Greetings, Lord Blackmane,’ it said. ‘My name is Lord Inquisitor Banist de Mornay of the Ordo Hereticus, Segmentum Pacificus Divisio. Aboard the Allsaint’s Herald.’
‘Lord Inquisitor,’ Ragnar acknowledged. ‘You’ve come from the crusade fleet, I take it?’
‘Not exactly. More like in spite of the crusade fleet.’
For all the voice’s apparent strength, it could not disguise its frailties from Ragnar’s keen senses. The Wolf could detect the slight wheeze that came with aged, failing lungs and the soft, wet slap of fleshy lips. While de Mornay’s tone retained much of what must have once been a considerable will, Ragnar doubted the man’s body had stood the test of time so well.
‘Your ship comes here seeking me,’ the Young King said. ‘Why? What business have you with the Vlka Fenryka?’
‘Noble Wolf, I do not know how much you are already aware of,’ de Mornay answered. ‘But time presses, so I will speak plainly. The Dark Angels have not come here to banish daemons. They are here because they are convinced – all of them – that your Chapter is harbouring the curse of a mutation far beyond the limits sanctioned for Adeptus Astartes gene-seed. And, as you can gather from their following, the Imperium at large appears to have been persuaded by them.’
‘The Imperium, but not you, Lord Inquisitor?’ Ragnar demanded. De Mornay didn’t reply, and the Young Wolf let the silence stretch. The accusations of mutation had left him pale-faced with anger, but he swallowed it, bit back at the beast snarling inside him. They were already lacking friends as it was. Cementing his Chapter’s isolation would not help any of them.
‘Why are you here, de Mornay?’ he repeated.
‘Suffice to say for now that I believe the Dark Angels’ interest in your… unfortunate secret conceals one of their own, one which surely must be far darker than what your wolf-brethren are currently struggling with.’
‘You speak in riddles, inquisitor,’ Ragnar said. ‘I already count Lukas the Trickster among the ranks of my Great Company, I wouldn’t want you to give him competition.’
‘These channels are undoubtedly being monitored, Wolf Lord,’ de Mornay said. ‘Yes, even with your ciphers and encryptions. The Inner Circle sees much, and hears even more.’
‘You are beginning to sound senile, inquisitor. What is this madness you speak of?’
‘I request an audience with you directly, Lord Blackmane. Aboard your ship.’
The sudden demand caught Ragnar by surprise.
‘Into the wolf’s lair?’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t you believe any of the stories you’ve heard? Do you think you would be safe?’
‘Not safe,’ de Mornay allowed. ‘But at least certain. Discussing matters face to face would be preferable to this. Your Chapter wards others away with the appearance of savagery, but your souls are not dark. I know Chapters that are.’
‘You would rather a wolf’s lair than a lion’s den,’ Ragnar said, smiling grimly. ‘Very well, Lord Inquisitor. We will receive you. And perhaps venture into the den together.’
Sub-orbit, Midgardia
Midgardia wasn’t hailing him.
Conran was not surprised. Normally a descent upon the Magma Gates would have required dual-level clearance codes and at least one vocal scan. But the only thing that spoke to him now over the vox was static.
The non-encrypted channels were a mess. Control of the airspace above the planet had collapsed completely. There were dozens of fliers aloft, from sleek unicutters to swollen cargo sows. They gave Conran’s Stormwolf a wide berth, not merely because of an instinctive fear of the Adeptus Astartes, but because his was the only transport headed planetside while the rest fled.
‘This is foolishness,’ said Kreg’s voice for the eighth time.
Conran didn’t reply. The Long Fang had almost physically blocked him from leaving Wolftide’s bridge.
‘What does the lion care for one wolf?’ he’d demanded.
‘It’s not one wolf,’ Conran had snapped back. ‘Logan Grimnar is down there. Egil Iron Wolf is down there. Our jarls, our champions, the greatest living heroes of our Chapter. I will not be the one to abandon them.’
‘You cannot help them down there,’ Kreg had said. ‘Hail the Rock again. Try one last time.’
But Conran could take no more. He would not scream hopelessly into the void while his packmates died.
The same loyalty clearly did not occupy the minds of the citizens of Midgardia. The landing plates and docking spires of the Magma Gates, rising above the blotched purple canopy of the surrounding spore jungles, were awash with people seeking salvation. Looking to the skies for landers that would never come. The Wolves in orbit had already taken on board what they could. As the Stormwolf banked overhead Conran saw the muzzle-flash of small-arms fire as a mob of refugees attempted to rush an area of the plates cordoned off for upper-spire dignitaries. The guards – privately hired muscle, no doubt – cut down the initial rush, but could not reload fast enough to stop the next. Conran lost sight of them as they were swamped by a sea of scrambling, screaming men, women and children.
The Space Wolf had seen such sights many times before. Civilian panic and disorder had been a feature of almost every war zone he had ever fought in. But this was not some crater-scarred war world in some distant frontier system. This was Midgardia, sister planet to noble Fenris itself, part of the Space Wolves’ fiefdom. The thought sickened him.
‘Conran,’ said Kreg again over the vox. Conran cut the channel.
He banked left, angling the transport for the highest point of the Magma Gates, the planetary governor’s control spire. Finally, he received a challenge, if only an automated one. A servitor demanded a string of ident-codes over the vox. Conran gave them, and was cleared to land. He noted with surprise that Governor Sandrin’s private shuttle, a gleaming chrome autowing, was still sitting idle on its docking strut.
Conran let the hardwired auto-servitor pilot the Stormwolf down, releasing his restraint harness and standing by the cockpit hatch. There was no one to greet him at the landing strut. Blast doors led from the plate into the control spire proper. Even this high above the canopy, the corrosive effect of Midgardia’s daemon-enhanced spores was obvious. Metal rusted and flaked and the blast doors opened with juddering reluctance, as though they hadn’t been used for decades. Below, the purple jungles stretched in an endless sea, discoloured now with foetid shades of green, a smog of ugly yellow-tinted spores hanging over the deformed canopy. The Wolf Guard didn’t linger outside.
He stalked the council chambers and corridors of the spire, his senses on edge. How far had the wyrd-taint been able to spread since they’d evacuated? Judging by the panic being exhibited on the public docking plates he assumed the enemy had at least penetrated the Magma Gates’ outer bastions.
The control spire, however, seemed utterly deserted. That was until his auto-senses detected the sound of raised voices emanating from Governor Sandrin’s personal chambers.
The rooms themselves were not the sumptuous things other planetary rulers might have enjoyed. The Magma Gates were more military garrison and administrative hub than a governor’s palace. Sandrin himself was not an Imperial Commander in the true sense of the title. It was the Space Wolves, and not the High Lords of Terra, who had appointed him as Governor of Midgardia, just as it was the Wolves that had appointed every one of the planet’s rulers since the Imperium had first granted the Chapter full rights over the Fenris System.
Sandrin himself was a competent enough man, a hard-working, long-suffering administrator
who preferred a clerk’s ink-stained apron to his fur-trimmed robes of office. Yet it was the latter he was wearing now, standing beside the unmade bed in his private sleeping chamber. His angry words masked Conran’s approach.
‘I won’t tell you again, Melain, I’m not leaving! Take the children and the shuttle. Go straight to the Wolf fleet in orbit, they’ll give you sanctuary. But I must stay.’
‘Why?’ Melain wailed. The governor’s wife was knelt before her husband, still in a dishevelled nightdress, face swollen with grief and streaked with tears. Two children, eyes wide with frightened bewilderment, stared on from a chair in the corner of the room. The older of the two, a little girl, was the first to notice Conran. She screamed.
Both parents turned, faces etched with fear. The realisation that it was one of the Adeptus Astartes, and not some foul daemon standing in their doorway, didn’t do much to lighten their expressions.
‘Governor Sandrin,’ Conran said. ‘I did not think to find you and your family still planetside.’
‘I-I won’t leave,’ Sandrin stammered. ‘It would be a dereliction of my duties as an Imperial citizen and a betrayal of my oaths to your Chapter and to Fenris. In ten thousand years no governor has abandoned Midgardia.’
‘Your courage does you great honour,’ Conran said. ‘But surely we cannot ask the same sacrifice from your family. I know what is coming through the spore jungles in this direction. I certainly would not wish my kinsfolk to experience it first-hand.’
‘I won’t leave my husband,’ Melain said, defiance hardening her grieving expression.
‘Yes, you will,’ Conran said. ‘For the sake of your children. I will take you onboard my own Stormwolf. You will be delivered safely to the flagship of my lord Egil, in orbit above.’
‘He sent you to retrieve us?’ Sandrin asked.
‘No. He is still deep in the underworld. I came on my own initiative. A misguided faction of our fellow Adeptus Astartes has been threatening to fire-bomb Midgardia’s surface. It seems we cannot stop them without drawing blood. I had hoped my presence planetside would make them reconsider. I cannot simply sit in orbit any longer while this world is burned to ash.’
Legacy of the Wulfen - David Annandale & Robbie MacNiven Page 24